A personal favorite of mine, a treatise on why it's not a good idea to cook and write simultaneously. |
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The Stove is ElsewhereWell, to begin with, you can’t mix these times,the time to write and the time to cook I was reminded of the truth of this, allowing just a moment to alter a paragraph while eggs were boiling hard, then listening to soft explosions from the kitchen Wondering what that was all about I’ve put on the coffeepot before and stepped away for just the smallest moment, noticing later the strange this smell of rubber burning, a drift through my window, something from the street Must be roofers mopping tar and like a dream just ending, I began to think of cappuccino Amazing physics in a pot run dry and glowing But there’s soup on now and soup’s forgiving Lost moments mean not a thing to soup and I make it thick, not tentatively phrased, paragraphing rough chopped carrots, peppers Never a dangled participle in the pot, three squirts of olive oil, two heads of garlic Knowing what I’m doing with soup Metaphoric spices, onion tears, tomato paste like blood, mushrooms grown in the dark like thoughts Never could keep up with Julia Childs or writer’s workshops either, too much recipe and yet somehow the soup is always pretty good Hot and pungent, thrown together it simmers Forgiving enough to let my mind run elsewhere |
This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats. |